These days there's an acronym for just about everything under the sun. Texting and tweeting cause everyone to abbreviate everything. Remember when people used to know how to spell? When spelling was actually taught in schools? Remember when little kids would study their spelling words for the week hoping for a gold star on their paper. Remember? Do they even teach spelling in school anymore? If they do, you wouldn't know it by reading Facebook posts would you? But I've gotten off track.
I talk about my friends, "The Old Chix", because, basically, they're the only people I know...and because we laugh a lot and can make fun of each other without anyone getting all butt hurt...most of the time. We're a bunch of ol' wimmin who've known each other for years and still manage to like each other...because of some things and in spite of others. We all have our share of "in spite of's'".
Because we're all old, women, and not the sharpest tools in the shed, what better title for our gang than SOW's? An acronym for Stoopid Ol' Women. I think it could work.
We could say things like...
"Do you know where the SOW's are?"
"Let's go hang out with the SOW's."
"I'm going out to dinner with the SOW's."
"The SOW's came over today."
"I'm taking the SOW's to the State Fair."
I could walk in to a bar to meet my friends and say to the future WalMart greeter who's the hostess... "I'm looking for the SOWS".
I haven't quite figured out how to tell the other Old Chix about my brilliant idea to start calling ourselves SOW's. Sometimes they don't think I'm as funny as I think I am...it's the Stoopidist Thing.
P.S.
I also have to admit this whole thing seemed funnier after consuming adult beverages but I think it could grow on me...
,
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Goldilocks
I think I've had a moment of brilliance, actually I'm sure of it. It all happened this morning when I woke up unexpectedly at three aye - em or zero dark thirty whichever you prefer. It was an ungodly early hour for sure. Trusty dog, Briley the Freakster, woke me up with a woof to go out to pee. Which, even though annoying, is a good thing if you consider the alternative is peeing on the floor. Sometimes I wonder, as I stagger around, if I've taught her to wake me up by telling her she's a good dog or if she naturally is a good dog who doesn't want to pee inside. Because I really don't want to get up in the middle of the night...every night...occasionally several times a night, to open and close the door for the dog...but I do. But I'm afraid to tell her to go back to bed because what if she has diarrhea and really can't wait? Then not only would I feel horrible for making her wait but I'd have runny dog shit all over the place. It's that thought that keeps me getting up in the middle of the night.
That's not the brilliant part though. The brilliant part is that while I was stumbling around I was thinking about food. I don't know why I think about food all the time but I do. It's not like I was ever starved as a child. I've never had to go hungry...in fact, I don't think I've ever been hungry. Probably because I eat all the time. In any case, I was thinking about what my favorite dinner would be and I decided it would be rib eye. Then I decided my all time favorite food would be ice cream...mint chocolate to be specific...not to be confused with mint chocolate chip which is entirely different. No, mint chocolate is like marble fudge only instead of vanilla ice cream the ice cream is mint with fudge ripples throughout. It's a fabulous flavor from my childhood that nobody makes anymore. Then the flash of brilliance...
I was thinking about my favorite adult beverage which doesn't have a name, it's just vodka with pineapple and grapefruit juice. Cocktail waitresses and bartenders have told me on numerous occasions that it's a Greyhound and brought me vodka/grapefruit sans pineapple. I've sent it back many times. One cute little waitress told me it was a Sea Breeze and brought me vodka/cranberry. So now when they ask me I just always say "I'd like vodka with pineapple/grapefruit juice". Oh, and I always say "please". Because I've been trained since birth that it's always important to be polite.
Standing at the door, I thought vodka with pineapple/grapefruit is the perfect drink, not too sweet, not too sour...it's just right...kinda like Baby Bear's bed...and it hit me...the flash of brilliance...it's a Goldilocks! Holy Shitsky how fucking wonderful is that?
All this time, the drink with no name...and now it has a name. Every time I go to a bar, I'm going to ask for a Goldilocks and when the cocktail waitress or waiter asks me what it is I'll tell them"It's vodka with half pineapple half grapefruit juice".
Okay, admittedly it's not "brilliance" on the scale of say, Jonas Salk, or Einstein, or Stephen Hawking. But in my pea brain, I'm a fucking genius for thinking this up...it's The Stoopidist Thing.
P.S. I'm not entirely sure that someone hasn't already usurped this fabulous name for some other adult beverage. I head to Google now...let the search begin.
P.S.S. If you ever go to a bar be sure to ask for a "Goldilocks" and when they ask what it is, tell them it's vodka with half pineapple and half grapefruit juice...in a chimney with ice. (I added the last part about the glass because that's the way I like it.)
That's not the brilliant part though. The brilliant part is that while I was stumbling around I was thinking about food. I don't know why I think about food all the time but I do. It's not like I was ever starved as a child. I've never had to go hungry...in fact, I don't think I've ever been hungry. Probably because I eat all the time. In any case, I was thinking about what my favorite dinner would be and I decided it would be rib eye. Then I decided my all time favorite food would be ice cream...mint chocolate to be specific...not to be confused with mint chocolate chip which is entirely different. No, mint chocolate is like marble fudge only instead of vanilla ice cream the ice cream is mint with fudge ripples throughout. It's a fabulous flavor from my childhood that nobody makes anymore. Then the flash of brilliance...
I was thinking about my favorite adult beverage which doesn't have a name, it's just vodka with pineapple and grapefruit juice. Cocktail waitresses and bartenders have told me on numerous occasions that it's a Greyhound and brought me vodka/grapefruit sans pineapple. I've sent it back many times. One cute little waitress told me it was a Sea Breeze and brought me vodka/cranberry. So now when they ask me I just always say "I'd like vodka with pineapple/grapefruit juice". Oh, and I always say "please". Because I've been trained since birth that it's always important to be polite.
Standing at the door, I thought vodka with pineapple/grapefruit is the perfect drink, not too sweet, not too sour...it's just right...kinda like Baby Bear's bed...and it hit me...the flash of brilliance...it's a Goldilocks! Holy Shitsky how fucking wonderful is that?
All this time, the drink with no name...and now it has a name. Every time I go to a bar, I'm going to ask for a Goldilocks and when the cocktail waitress or waiter asks me what it is I'll tell them"It's vodka with half pineapple half grapefruit juice".
Okay, admittedly it's not "brilliance" on the scale of say, Jonas Salk, or Einstein, or Stephen Hawking. But in my pea brain, I'm a fucking genius for thinking this up...it's The Stoopidist Thing.
P.S. I'm not entirely sure that someone hasn't already usurped this fabulous name for some other adult beverage. I head to Google now...let the search begin.
P.S.S. If you ever go to a bar be sure to ask for a "Goldilocks" and when they ask what it is, tell them it's vodka with half pineapple and half grapefruit juice...in a chimney with ice. (I added the last part about the glass because that's the way I like it.)
Saturday, April 30, 2016
It's Official...
I'm an asshole.
Even when I try not to be an asshole, my brain is filled with Assholian thoughts. I know that's not a real word but it should be. You know...the same way people who are from Italy are Italians and people from America are Americans. People who are assholes are Assholians. If you think about it, it's not a bad idea. By calling a group of assholes Assholians you avoid being labeled racist, sexist, or bigoted against any faith or group. You could just call them assholes and be done with it but where's the fun in that? Everybody else in the world has some kind of label, why not assholes? Seems kinda discriminatory not to give them a label too, doesn't it? So let's not simply be assholes, let's be Assholians.
I've decided I'm pretty much an asshole every day. I'd like to think I'm not, but because of the things that go on in my head, I think maybe I was born an asshole. I probably started out as little baby asshole, and rapidly went through the Assholian stages of life, toddler, teenage, etc., before finally arriving at the last Assholian stage of life...crabby ol' woman.
Except I'm not really crabby. I may look crabby because like many others so afflicted, I suffer from Bitchy Resting Face. Most people automatically think I'm angry or don't like them but usually the opposite is true. I pretty much like everybody. It's just that I'm uncomfortable around people I don't know and with the BRF look stuck on my mug...well it's kinda understandable.
Things I say in my head are things that I would never in a million years say out loud. Not only that, I would be totally mortified if someone could read my mind.
Today, for example, I stopped at the strawberry stand on my way home from town. It's run by a little Asian lady who doesn't say much. I don't know if it's because her English isn't great or she's just shy. She, too, appears to suffer from BRF. I could be wrong. Maybe she just doesn't like people interrupting her solitude. But I doubt that's the case because her livelihood depends on interrupted solitude. Then again, she could be a rich woman selling strawberries for fun who only looks like she's not having a good time because she has BRF. Sadly, we'll never know because neither of us speaks...except me..."I'd like three baskets please". Strawberry Lady stays silent...bagging my berries.
While I'm standing there, another woman showed up at the stand and stood next to me. She looked like an upper middle class "soccer mom" type. See, Assholian impulse...immediately I labeled her in my head. I smiled at her attempting to soften the BRF mug and she smiled back...a big, beautiful smile... with one giant front tooth dwarfing all the other little Chiclet teeth. I had to look away because I was afraid I would stare at the tooth...I mean, it wasn't Stephen King fang-ish or anything like that but it was big enough that it drew your eye to it.
Soccer Mom attempted to make small talk with Strawberry Lady.
SM: "Are your strawberries sweet?"
SL: "Yeah, they sweet." (At least now I know Strawberry Lady can understand and speak English.)
Assholian impulse quickly kicks in again...first I question Soccer Mom's intelligence. I mean does she really think Strawberry Lady is going to say her strawberries are sour? Who's going to knowingly buy sour strawberries? Of course Strawberry Lady's going to say her strawberries are sweet. Never have I heard of any recipe calling for sour strawberries and nobody wants to eat ones that are going to give them pucker face.
The conversation in my head is completely different than the one I'm actually listening to as the final Assholian impulse takes control. Replete with Asian accent, this is what goes on in my head.
SM: "Are your strawberries sweet?"
SL: "Nooo, here we sell only sour strawberry. You wan sweet strawberry you go someplace else."
SM: "Oh no, that's okay, sour's good. I'll take a whole flat please."
SM's so shocked that SL actually admitted the strawberries were sour that she now feels obliged to buy them. And, not being a member of the Assholian tribe herself, SM is afraid of being labeled a racist if she now tells SL that she doesn't want sour strawberries and to overcompensate she ends up with a whole flat of sour strawberries that she really doesn't want.
Why does my brain work this way? It's the Stoopidist Thing...
Even when I try not to be an asshole, my brain is filled with Assholian thoughts. I know that's not a real word but it should be. You know...the same way people who are from Italy are Italians and people from America are Americans. People who are assholes are Assholians. If you think about it, it's not a bad idea. By calling a group of assholes Assholians you avoid being labeled racist, sexist, or bigoted against any faith or group. You could just call them assholes and be done with it but where's the fun in that? Everybody else in the world has some kind of label, why not assholes? Seems kinda discriminatory not to give them a label too, doesn't it? So let's not simply be assholes, let's be Assholians.
I've decided I'm pretty much an asshole every day. I'd like to think I'm not, but because of the things that go on in my head, I think maybe I was born an asshole. I probably started out as little baby asshole, and rapidly went through the Assholian stages of life, toddler, teenage, etc., before finally arriving at the last Assholian stage of life...crabby ol' woman.
Except I'm not really crabby. I may look crabby because like many others so afflicted, I suffer from Bitchy Resting Face. Most people automatically think I'm angry or don't like them but usually the opposite is true. I pretty much like everybody. It's just that I'm uncomfortable around people I don't know and with the BRF look stuck on my mug...well it's kinda understandable.
Things I say in my head are things that I would never in a million years say out loud. Not only that, I would be totally mortified if someone could read my mind.
Today, for example, I stopped at the strawberry stand on my way home from town. It's run by a little Asian lady who doesn't say much. I don't know if it's because her English isn't great or she's just shy. She, too, appears to suffer from BRF. I could be wrong. Maybe she just doesn't like people interrupting her solitude. But I doubt that's the case because her livelihood depends on interrupted solitude. Then again, she could be a rich woman selling strawberries for fun who only looks like she's not having a good time because she has BRF. Sadly, we'll never know because neither of us speaks...except me..."I'd like three baskets please". Strawberry Lady stays silent...bagging my berries.
While I'm standing there, another woman showed up at the stand and stood next to me. She looked like an upper middle class "soccer mom" type. See, Assholian impulse...immediately I labeled her in my head. I smiled at her attempting to soften the BRF mug and she smiled back...a big, beautiful smile... with one giant front tooth dwarfing all the other little Chiclet teeth. I had to look away because I was afraid I would stare at the tooth...I mean, it wasn't Stephen King fang-ish or anything like that but it was big enough that it drew your eye to it.
Soccer Mom attempted to make small talk with Strawberry Lady.
SM: "Are your strawberries sweet?"
SL: "Yeah, they sweet." (At least now I know Strawberry Lady can understand and speak English.)
Assholian impulse quickly kicks in again...first I question Soccer Mom's intelligence. I mean does she really think Strawberry Lady is going to say her strawberries are sour? Who's going to knowingly buy sour strawberries? Of course Strawberry Lady's going to say her strawberries are sweet. Never have I heard of any recipe calling for sour strawberries and nobody wants to eat ones that are going to give them pucker face.
The conversation in my head is completely different than the one I'm actually listening to as the final Assholian impulse takes control. Replete with Asian accent, this is what goes on in my head.
SM: "Are your strawberries sweet?"
SL: "Nooo, here we sell only sour strawberry. You wan sweet strawberry you go someplace else."
SM: "Oh no, that's okay, sour's good. I'll take a whole flat please."
SM's so shocked that SL actually admitted the strawberries were sour that she now feels obliged to buy them. And, not being a member of the Assholian tribe herself, SM is afraid of being labeled a racist if she now tells SL that she doesn't want sour strawberries and to overcompensate she ends up with a whole flat of sour strawberries that she really doesn't want.
Why does my brain work this way? It's the Stoopidist Thing...
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
The Cathie Club
The Scari One and I had lunch today with the Cathies. Fave SIL, Kathi, and blast from the past friend, Cathy. In the interest of speeding things up, I'll call them K & C respectively. The reason for this should be self explanatory. If for some reason, you're a member of the Moronsky family, it's because SIL Kathi starts her name with a "K", and blast from the past Cathy starts her name with a "C". To all non-members of the Moronsky family, I apologize for the need to explain this in such detail.
The Cathies were at the restaurant when we got there. Both of them sitting with their backs against the far wall. Probably so we couldn't sneak up on them. Not that I had any kind of plan to sneak up on them, but it would be nice to have that option if the opportunity presented itself. 'Course at our age, it's probably not a good idea to sneak up on each other. You know, weak tickers and all? I'd feel really bad having to go home and tell The Husband that I scared his baby sister to death...literally.
So The Cathies both belong to a writing group. Both are relatively new to the group and joined to be able to network because they've both written books. The other poor schmoes in this group have no idea what they're up against now that The Cathies have united. The poor writers group should expect a take over in short order...they'll never know what hit 'em.
Here's the links to both of their books:
K's book is about a dog she & her husband, Alan, (aka Gadget Man) adopted. When they got him I actually mentioned Gadget Man telling the tale here. Weekend Dining-The Play
This is the link for K's book...
Odd Otis: An Unusual Tail (Tale)
C's book is a science fiction/young adult novel. Here's her link...
Jump
A portion of the proceeds from K's book go to some special needs animal group...I haven't verified this personally...she could be scamming the unsuspecting public and keeping all the dough for herself...just kidding...she'd be legally obligated to give half to Gadget Man. I'm sure she'll be horrified that I would say that...which is basically why I said it. Just to bug her. Truth is, she's a big animal lover and is very involved in spreading the word about needy animals.
The proceeds from C's book go to her...because she's old and needs the dough. Although I'm guessing if it became a best seller she would donate generously to some kind of charity for the less fortunate. I could be wrong...she could be a selfish bitch and keep it all for herself...but I don't think so. I would, but then I know I'm a selfish bitch...oh,wow...a glimmer of self awareness...it's The Stoopidist Thing.
The Cathies were at the restaurant when we got there. Both of them sitting with their backs against the far wall. Probably so we couldn't sneak up on them. Not that I had any kind of plan to sneak up on them, but it would be nice to have that option if the opportunity presented itself. 'Course at our age, it's probably not a good idea to sneak up on each other. You know, weak tickers and all? I'd feel really bad having to go home and tell The Husband that I scared his baby sister to death...literally.
So The Cathies both belong to a writing group. Both are relatively new to the group and joined to be able to network because they've both written books. The other poor schmoes in this group have no idea what they're up against now that The Cathies have united. The poor writers group should expect a take over in short order...they'll never know what hit 'em.
Here's the links to both of their books:
K's book is about a dog she & her husband, Alan, (aka Gadget Man) adopted. When they got him I actually mentioned Gadget Man telling the tale here. Weekend Dining-The Play
This is the link for K's book...
Odd Otis: An Unusual Tail (Tale)
C's book is a science fiction/young adult novel. Here's her link...
Jump
A portion of the proceeds from K's book go to some special needs animal group...I haven't verified this personally...she could be scamming the unsuspecting public and keeping all the dough for herself...just kidding...she'd be legally obligated to give half to Gadget Man. I'm sure she'll be horrified that I would say that...which is basically why I said it. Just to bug her. Truth is, she's a big animal lover and is very involved in spreading the word about needy animals.
The proceeds from C's book go to her...because she's old and needs the dough. Although I'm guessing if it became a best seller she would donate generously to some kind of charity for the less fortunate. I could be wrong...she could be a selfish bitch and keep it all for herself...but I don't think so. I would, but then I know I'm a selfish bitch...oh,wow...a glimmer of self awareness...it's The Stoopidist Thing.
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
I Guess I'm Just A Sexist...Who Knew???
The other day I was driving to a neighboring town with The Scari One, of Old Chix fame. We had major stuff to buy at Costco. I always have major stuff to buy at Costco. Usually dry roasted Macadamia nuts and apple strudel pastries. Oh, and roasted chicken. Costco really does have the best deal on roasted chicken. I'm sure there're people who would poo-poo this idea. They'd say that THEY stuff THEIR chicken cavity with citrus, onions, and herbs, then rub the outside with clarified butter infused with roasted garlic. And you MUST roast the bird upside down for 10 minutes at inferno temperatures, then, at the exact second, because timing is critical, turn the oven down to its final magical temperature and the bird over to its final position leaving it to finish cooking for the precise amount of time...or some such fucking nonsense. You can't buy a chicken, cook it yourself, and have it turn out as good as Costco does...and that's the simple truth.
But that doesn't make me a sexist...
We were driving along fat, dumb, and happy when we passed three Honda convertibles driving in a row...out for a Sunday drive. First of all, I didn't even know Honda made sporty little convertibles, did you? Secondly, they were all driven by "older" men. I don't know how "old", but they all had gray hair blowing in the breeze of their 30 mph mach-less road trip. They were cool dudes out for a drive in their "sports" cars. I'm sure they all had buttons open on their shirts revealing the mandatory gold chains adorning their old gray chest hair. It's pretty much an "old guy" stereotype...but they're usually driving a Porsche or Corvette, or some other equally expensive "trying to recapture my youth" ride.I didn't know there was a "cool car club" for Honda convertible drivers...(I don't really get the whole "car club" thing...cool or otherwise. Guess I'm just not the "club" type.)
I don't think this when I see an "older" woman driving a sporty car...convertible or otherwise. I do wonder how they keep their hair from getting all fucked up when they're driving a convertible though. Add a little wind to my hair and I instantly become "Rat Woman". It's actually pretty impressive that they get where they're going and remain unscathed by the breeze.
It never occurred to me that stereotyping only the old guys was sexist...but it is. So let's remedy that right now. Maybe old women don't try to recapture their youth by driving "cool" cars, but they, okay, we...do it in other ways...such as...
They shop at Forever 21...when they're a good 30-40 lbs over the largest size available thinking nobody will notice the lumps and bulges popping out of the compression undergarments they've squeezed into from top to bottom.
They wear things from their teenage daughter's closet. Just because it fits doesn't mean it looks good.
They wear low cut tops emphasizing what was once a beautiful bust line has now become a sea of crepey cleavage...complete with age related discoloration. Hint here...old wrinkled boobage is best kept under cover.
They wear too short shorts...nobody wants to look at cellulite ridden thighs and spider/varicose veins. It's why God made Capri's.
They wear sleeveless tops when their upper arms have turned to flab...there's no such thing as flabulicious. If there is, it's on some creepy pervert website catering to fat fetish folks.
They wear tight fitting exercise garb to be stylish...completely unaware that FUPA and cankles have become less stylish since the days of Michelangelo.
I feel much better now that I've relieved myself of the burden of being a sexist bitch and can now be equally insulting to both sexes. We all just need to quit tryin' to be something that we're not.
I'm off now on my way to Costco with The Scari One. Just as soon as I find a pair of fashionable yoga pants that cover my cankle length Spanx and smear some Crepe Erase all over my exposed bosom...it's The Stoopidist Thing.
P.S. In case you don't know what FUPA is, it's fat upper pussy area...I didn't know what it was either.
But that doesn't make me a sexist...
We were driving along fat, dumb, and happy when we passed three Honda convertibles driving in a row...out for a Sunday drive. First of all, I didn't even know Honda made sporty little convertibles, did you? Secondly, they were all driven by "older" men. I don't know how "old", but they all had gray hair blowing in the breeze of their 30 mph mach-less road trip. They were cool dudes out for a drive in their "sports" cars. I'm sure they all had buttons open on their shirts revealing the mandatory gold chains adorning their old gray chest hair. It's pretty much an "old guy" stereotype...but they're usually driving a Porsche or Corvette, or some other equally expensive "trying to recapture my youth" ride.I didn't know there was a "cool car club" for Honda convertible drivers...(I don't really get the whole "car club" thing...cool or otherwise. Guess I'm just not the "club" type.)
I don't think this when I see an "older" woman driving a sporty car...convertible or otherwise. I do wonder how they keep their hair from getting all fucked up when they're driving a convertible though. Add a little wind to my hair and I instantly become "Rat Woman". It's actually pretty impressive that they get where they're going and remain unscathed by the breeze.
It never occurred to me that stereotyping only the old guys was sexist...but it is. So let's remedy that right now. Maybe old women don't try to recapture their youth by driving "cool" cars, but they, okay, we...do it in other ways...such as...
They shop at Forever 21...when they're a good 30-40 lbs over the largest size available thinking nobody will notice the lumps and bulges popping out of the compression undergarments they've squeezed into from top to bottom.
They wear things from their teenage daughter's closet. Just because it fits doesn't mean it looks good.
They wear low cut tops emphasizing what was once a beautiful bust line has now become a sea of crepey cleavage...complete with age related discoloration. Hint here...old wrinkled boobage is best kept under cover.
They wear too short shorts...nobody wants to look at cellulite ridden thighs and spider/varicose veins. It's why God made Capri's.
They wear sleeveless tops when their upper arms have turned to flab...there's no such thing as flabulicious. If there is, it's on some creepy pervert website catering to fat fetish folks.
They wear tight fitting exercise garb to be stylish...completely unaware that FUPA and cankles have become less stylish since the days of Michelangelo.
I feel much better now that I've relieved myself of the burden of being a sexist bitch and can now be equally insulting to both sexes. We all just need to quit tryin' to be something that we're not.
I'm off now on my way to Costco with The Scari One. Just as soon as I find a pair of fashionable yoga pants that cover my cankle length Spanx and smear some Crepe Erase all over my exposed bosom...it's The Stoopidist Thing.
P.S. In case you don't know what FUPA is, it's fat upper pussy area...I didn't know what it was either.
Monday, March 21, 2016
Holy Shitsky!
While The Husband and I were driving home tonight after a feast of Chicken Fried Steak (The Husband) and Liver & Onions (Me) I thought of something while I was daydreaming. Daydreaming is usually what I do when I'm driving and there's no conversation to keep my mind from wandering. I have no idea why I thought of this...maybe because we just ate and my mind was still thinking of food, but I started thinking about eating meat. I love meat. I'd give up almost any other food for meat... except ice cream. I'd have a really hard time never having ice cream again, but then again, I'd have a really hard time never having a Ribeye. Hopefully I'll never have to choose because the stress of that decision might kill me...okay, it probably wouldn't kill me but it would break my heart.
Then I started thinking about Kosher meat, Halal meat, and just good ol' meat in general. Now I'm not a discriminator between "clean & unclean" meats. I pretty much eat them all if I like the taste. But tonight for some reason I started thinking about what makes a meat "clean". You know, the whole "chewing of the cud and split hoof" thing? There's way more stuff involved, but since I'm neither Jewish or Muslim, I don't eat according to their dietary guidelines.
But...I got all hung up on the whole "cud chewing" thing and for the first time in my life it occurred to me that that means barfing up stuff and re-chewing it. All my life I've been eating animals who eat their own barf...whose physiology demands they eat their own barf...it's how they survive.
Barf is really disgusting. I think it's totally gross when one of the dogs eats cat barf...you know the semi chewed and not even entirely digested little snake of dry cat food barf? That same little snake of barf that my precious Lilli Mowbeane is famous for leaving in the most unexpected places to be discovered by a bare foot. I think she secretly does it on purpose so she an sit back and laugh at the expression on my face and the horrible words coming out of my mouth when this happens. Anyone who has had cats for any length of time knows whereof I speak. It's an extremely unpleasant thing to encounter on a quick trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Have you ever heard anyone say, when they think about or do something really gross "it makes me wanna throw up a little bit in my mouth"? If you stop and think about it, can anyone really throw up "only a little bit"? I know I can't. Once that upchuck starts, there's nothing stopping it. I'm usually just grateful if it doesn't come out my nose too. (Sorry, I know that's probably something most people could live without knowing...but it's totally true.)
Really the only time you can even really swallow barf is if it's like burp juice. I guess that would be kinda the same thing...only not intentional and not in mass quantities. And you always make a really sour face...the bile smile. I think I just coined a new phrase.
Here's something I never in a million years thought I would ever say...although I'll probably only say it in my head. People would think I'm even weirder than they already do if I said it out loud.
"I love eating animals who eat their own barf."
Pretty unappetizing when you think about isn't it? But WTF am I supposed to do about it now? Once you think something like that, you can't just un-think it. Unless you're Scarlett Fucking O'Hara and "think about it tomorrow." I mean, when you're on the downhill side of life are you really going to change? What am I going to do, become a vegan?
Now, I don't mean to question the Almighty here, but maybe something got lost in the translation from Supreme Being to Lowly Human..like it does when you're a kid playing "Telephone". 'Cause it kinda seems wrong that the critters who eat their own barf are considered "clean" and the ones who aren't barf eaters are the "unclean" ones...It's the Stoopidist Thing.
Then I started thinking about Kosher meat, Halal meat, and just good ol' meat in general. Now I'm not a discriminator between "clean & unclean" meats. I pretty much eat them all if I like the taste. But tonight for some reason I started thinking about what makes a meat "clean". You know, the whole "chewing of the cud and split hoof" thing? There's way more stuff involved, but since I'm neither Jewish or Muslim, I don't eat according to their dietary guidelines.
But...I got all hung up on the whole "cud chewing" thing and for the first time in my life it occurred to me that that means barfing up stuff and re-chewing it. All my life I've been eating animals who eat their own barf...whose physiology demands they eat their own barf...it's how they survive.
Barf is really disgusting. I think it's totally gross when one of the dogs eats cat barf...you know the semi chewed and not even entirely digested little snake of dry cat food barf? That same little snake of barf that my precious Lilli Mowbeane is famous for leaving in the most unexpected places to be discovered by a bare foot. I think she secretly does it on purpose so she an sit back and laugh at the expression on my face and the horrible words coming out of my mouth when this happens. Anyone who has had cats for any length of time knows whereof I speak. It's an extremely unpleasant thing to encounter on a quick trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
Have you ever heard anyone say, when they think about or do something really gross "it makes me wanna throw up a little bit in my mouth"? If you stop and think about it, can anyone really throw up "only a little bit"? I know I can't. Once that upchuck starts, there's nothing stopping it. I'm usually just grateful if it doesn't come out my nose too. (Sorry, I know that's probably something most people could live without knowing...but it's totally true.)
Really the only time you can even really swallow barf is if it's like burp juice. I guess that would be kinda the same thing...only not intentional and not in mass quantities. And you always make a really sour face...the bile smile. I think I just coined a new phrase.
Here's something I never in a million years thought I would ever say...although I'll probably only say it in my head. People would think I'm even weirder than they already do if I said it out loud.
"I love eating animals who eat their own barf."
Pretty unappetizing when you think about isn't it? But WTF am I supposed to do about it now? Once you think something like that, you can't just un-think it. Unless you're Scarlett Fucking O'Hara and "think about it tomorrow." I mean, when you're on the downhill side of life are you really going to change? What am I going to do, become a vegan?
Now, I don't mean to question the Almighty here, but maybe something got lost in the translation from Supreme Being to Lowly Human..like it does when you're a kid playing "Telephone". 'Cause it kinda seems wrong that the critters who eat their own barf are considered "clean" and the ones who aren't barf eaters are the "unclean" ones...It's the Stoopidist Thing.
Monday, February 29, 2016
I've Done It Again
A few months ago I got fake nails so my hands wouldn't look quite so horrible when I went on a cruise in Europe. They were made of some kind of gel goop, not too long, and not too short...they were just right...kinda like Goldilocks nails.
I liked them so much that I kept them all this time. Every three weeks I visit, Angie, the Goddess of Fake Nails. She spends an hour sanding, filing, and re-gooping my mini talons. My hands still look like an old woman's hands, but my nails look fab.
The only problem with them is it's kinda hard to pick stuff up, like coins from a counter or the film covering two sided tape so I can put it on things to keep the cats from scratching.( A tip I was given by the resident Old Chix Crazy Cat Lady, Scari...and it actually works!)
Having fake nails also prevents me from "picking". All my life I've been a picker. I pick at my face, my feet, my hands. I pick at my cuticles, fingernails, toenails, shoulders peeling from sunburn...you name it, I pick at it. I don't know why I do it and I never much cared unless I created a giant sore on my face from squeezing a tiny little clogged pore smaller than a pin head. I'd go into the bathroom seemingly blemish free and accidentally get a glimpse of something in the mirror...which forced me to go to the magnifying mirror...which was a HUGE mistake...and I'd exit the bathroom with giant red lumps all over my face.
I have to admit it's frustrating not to be able to pick when I see something that needs pickin'. It bothers me...but I didn't realize how much until I felt a teenie weensie bit of a hangnail on my left thumb. I don't even think it was a hangnail, I think it was just a little bit of skin. But I couldn't pick it with my too thick talons.
Next thing I know, I'm gnawing at my thumb. Literally...I'm taking my teeth and raking them on the inside of my thumb next to the nail trying to get the minuscule piece of skin in my teeth to pull it off. I had to try for a really, really long time to trap the tiny piece of offending skin between my front teeth, but my efforts finally paid off. Elation! I snapped my head around with the little piece between my teeth and ripped it off my thumb...along with a HUGE chunk of skin that it was attached to.
Blood seeped into the grove alongside the nail bed of my thumb. Holy fuck me runnin'...it hurt!!! What the fuck's wrong with me??? Is this some kind of weird psychological disorder? Like cutting? Only using my teeth and nails to wound myself?
So, after a couple of days, what did I do? I did what everybody else does when they want to find out something. I Googled it. And guess what??? I have a fucking disorder AND it has a name...Dermatillomania. WTF???? It's some kind of an OCD thing.
Fortunately, I was relieved to find that I don't exhibit ALL the symptoms...yet. And, through Google, I was able to find an informative sheet of facts through the helpful OCD Foundation entitled "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet". No shit, totally true. The fact sheet gave a helpful definition of what "Skin Picking Disorder" is and it requires all three of the components. Thank God I only have one...maybe one and a half. It might have been two if the compulsion had caused social damage to other parts of my life, but thanks to modern makeup, specifically concealer, I narrowly avoided being a two.
Still, I thought, maybe I do need help to keep my little problem from becoming a "full blown" disorder. Again, the OCD foundation came through because down at the bottom of the "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet" was a link to a website. No joke, this is totally true...
www.stoppicking.com
Of course I had to visit the website to see if there were any useful tips they could offer, and guess what? They want a dollar a day to enroll in their "program". But, in as little as ten minutes a day, I can expect results. They listed the names of three "experts" to help with their program. Two of them specialize in Trichotillomania, a hair pulling disorder,the other is a dermatologist but it doesn't say that one specializes in Dermatillomania. Shouldn't a website that is supposed to help you stop picking at your skin have at least one "expert" in that field? So I boycotted their site. They're not gonna get my dollar a day, no sir...
Besides, think of all the concealer I could buy for a dollar a day...it's the Stoopidist Thing.
I liked them so much that I kept them all this time. Every three weeks I visit, Angie, the Goddess of Fake Nails. She spends an hour sanding, filing, and re-gooping my mini talons. My hands still look like an old woman's hands, but my nails look fab.
The only problem with them is it's kinda hard to pick stuff up, like coins from a counter or the film covering two sided tape so I can put it on things to keep the cats from scratching.( A tip I was given by the resident Old Chix Crazy Cat Lady, Scari...and it actually works!)
Having fake nails also prevents me from "picking". All my life I've been a picker. I pick at my face, my feet, my hands. I pick at my cuticles, fingernails, toenails, shoulders peeling from sunburn...you name it, I pick at it. I don't know why I do it and I never much cared unless I created a giant sore on my face from squeezing a tiny little clogged pore smaller than a pin head. I'd go into the bathroom seemingly blemish free and accidentally get a glimpse of something in the mirror...which forced me to go to the magnifying mirror...which was a HUGE mistake...and I'd exit the bathroom with giant red lumps all over my face.
I have to admit it's frustrating not to be able to pick when I see something that needs pickin'. It bothers me...but I didn't realize how much until I felt a teenie weensie bit of a hangnail on my left thumb. I don't even think it was a hangnail, I think it was just a little bit of skin. But I couldn't pick it with my too thick talons.
Next thing I know, I'm gnawing at my thumb. Literally...I'm taking my teeth and raking them on the inside of my thumb next to the nail trying to get the minuscule piece of skin in my teeth to pull it off. I had to try for a really, really long time to trap the tiny piece of offending skin between my front teeth, but my efforts finally paid off. Elation! I snapped my head around with the little piece between my teeth and ripped it off my thumb...along with a HUGE chunk of skin that it was attached to.
Blood seeped into the grove alongside the nail bed of my thumb. Holy fuck me runnin'...it hurt!!! What the fuck's wrong with me??? Is this some kind of weird psychological disorder? Like cutting? Only using my teeth and nails to wound myself?
So, after a couple of days, what did I do? I did what everybody else does when they want to find out something. I Googled it. And guess what??? I have a fucking disorder AND it has a name...Dermatillomania. WTF???? It's some kind of an OCD thing.
Fortunately, I was relieved to find that I don't exhibit ALL the symptoms...yet. And, through Google, I was able to find an informative sheet of facts through the helpful OCD Foundation entitled "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet". No shit, totally true. The fact sheet gave a helpful definition of what "Skin Picking Disorder" is and it requires all three of the components. Thank God I only have one...maybe one and a half. It might have been two if the compulsion had caused social damage to other parts of my life, but thanks to modern makeup, specifically concealer, I narrowly avoided being a two.
Still, I thought, maybe I do need help to keep my little problem from becoming a "full blown" disorder. Again, the OCD foundation came through because down at the bottom of the "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet" was a link to a website. No joke, this is totally true...
www.stoppicking.com
Of course I had to visit the website to see if there were any useful tips they could offer, and guess what? They want a dollar a day to enroll in their "program". But, in as little as ten minutes a day, I can expect results. They listed the names of three "experts" to help with their program. Two of them specialize in Trichotillomania, a hair pulling disorder,the other is a dermatologist but it doesn't say that one specializes in Dermatillomania. Shouldn't a website that is supposed to help you stop picking at your skin have at least one "expert" in that field? So I boycotted their site. They're not gonna get my dollar a day, no sir...
Besides, think of all the concealer I could buy for a dollar a day...it's the Stoopidist Thing.
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